


Don't Feel Like Dancing, Until I Do

by nautilicious



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Fic Exchange, First Kiss, Inspired by Music, M/M, Round Robin, dancepartylock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 07:51:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1932756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nautilicious/pseuds/nautilicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Mary, John and Sherlock dance again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Feel Like Dancing, Until I Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [patternofdefiance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/patternofdefiance/gifts).



> I was tagged by patternofdefiance in an 18-hour deadline round robin tumblr ficlet dance party. She gave me the song [I Don't Feel Like Dancing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4H5I6y1Qvz0) by the Scissor Sisters.

God knows how many times the song played while he was sleeping, but it’s on the third repeat since John woke from the nightmare. John might have gotten back to sleep if it were only the bass thumping softly up through the floor but there’s some sort of falsetto going on, and he can’t tune that out. John rubs his eyes, gets out of bed. Violin at all hours is one thing, but cheesy pop music? Should be outlawed.

He walks downstairs. He’s in the mood for a row, frankly, has been for days, but Sherlock has his thinking face on, sprawled on the couch as the song plays through. John decides to give him the benefit of the doubt. He puts the kettle on.

“Is this the Bee Gees?” he asks.

“No,” Sherlock replies, tapping one long finger against his lips.

“ABBA?”

“John. Do I seem like an ABBA kind of person?” 

John can practically hear Sherlock’s eyes roll. John ignores him. “How is it that you’ve deleted the solar system, but you know enough about pop music to have opinions about it?”

 _Don’t feel like dancing,_ went the lyrics, and something about the singer’s voice caught John’s ear. “It sounds a bit like that song—“ 

Sherlock’s finger stops tapping. His head turns towards John. John presses his lips together. _—from the reception,_ he doesn’t say, but he knows Sherlock has already heard the end of that sentence. It’s the first time he’s mentioned the wedding in six months, and he’s startled that it nearly fell out of his mouth like that.

Most of the music from that night is a blur, thank goodness, or he’d never be able to bear the piped-in music at Tesco’s, but he remembers the general tenor of the evening. John clears his throat, fusses with the tea things. “It’s a far cry from what you usually have playing, anyway,” he says.

“It’s for a case.”

John does not question this. For A Case has covered such a multitude of strange things that he merely nods, waits for Sherlock to elaborate.

“It’s a code of some sort. Or a message.”

John sighs. “How many more times do you think you’ll be playing it, then?”

Sherlock shrugs.

 _My heart could take a chance but my two feet can’t find a way_ wafts through the flat in falsetto, and John feels disgusted with himself for how the words, despite their bouncy delivery, seem to hit him straight in the center of his chest. He blames the late hour, the interrupted sleep, but his life has been full of painful synchronicity lately: on bad days it seems as though every sad song on the radio speaks directly to him.

“Does this song make you want to dance?” Sherlock asks.

“I’m not big on dancing,” John says. He does not look towards the corner of the room where they practiced his wedding waltz, their bodies pressed close in a way he’d studiously ignored.

Sherlock leaps to his feet. “I’m going to need you to learn,” he says. “This song has been played in every club near where we’ve found the bodies.”

“Maybe it’s just a popular song, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “There’s more to it than that, I’m sure of it.” He gestured to his current crime scene wall. “I need to narrow down the list of clubs. That means we’re going to have to go dancing.”

John considers it. He generally prefers pubs to clubs. Sure, he can move his body acceptably around the dance floor, but he doesn’t really enjoy it. On the other hand, going to a club for a case that seems likely to result in a chase through London’s nightlife, not to mention keeping Sherlock from doing something stupid, sounds like a grand idea. Better than staying home and picking a fight with Sherlock to fill the silence of everything John isn’t saying.

The song starts again, and Sherlock begins to tilt his hips from side to side. “I saw this on the video,” Sherlock says, moving his shoulders, alternating them up and down to the beat.

Sherlock shifts his weight with some steps that look a bit prissy for pop music, then points at John, mouthing the lyrics dramatically. His eyes twinkle with amusement. He’s obviously playing up the camp of it to make John laugh, and John feels his heart squeeze in his chest. Sherlock would never allow himself to look so silly in front of anyone else. No one but John. He feels a wave of tenderness wash over him. He smiles at Sherlock, feels his heart lift. Sherlock really does look a bit ridiculous, his hair rumpled and nearly standing on end, lip-synching of all things!

“The lead singer wore leather trousers; I might have to get some.” Sherlock is wearing his striped pajama bottoms, and they start to slide down his hips as he does a full-on undulation. John’s mouth goes dry, and then he thinks about the same moves executed by Sherlock in skin-tight leather and he licks his lips.

Sherlock is smiling now, crowding forward into John’s space. “Don’t just stand there. You’re going to have to learn to move your hips.” Long-fingered hands reach out and grasp John’s hips, and John’s cock goes half-hard in his pants. The crinkles at the corners of Sherlock’s eyes smooth out and he slows, then stops. John feels pinned by Sherlock’s gaze, pressed to immobility between the large, warm hands bracketing his hips.

Sherlock looks serious. “Won’t you dance with me, John?” His voice is a low rumble, and he’s standing so close, radiating heat from dancing. John swallows. He still misses Mary, still has nightmares about that night by the river. He’s told himself that he won’t, that he can’t, but it’s three in the morning and he’s heartbroken and lonely and it’s Sherlock, the most important person he’s got left, a breath away and smelling faintly of sweat. It’s too much. John can’t bear the distance between their bodies a second longer.

John reaches up, threads his hands into Sherlock’s curls, and stretches up to capture Sherlock’s mouth with his own. Sherlock’s hands clutch against John’s hips, their tongues dancing together until John feels dizzy with it. The world narrows to the press and pull of their bodies, the small sounds and gasps as they kiss and kiss.

At last, John tugs Sherlock’s hair, hard and possessive, and Sherlock breaks away to groan. They’re both panting. John slowly becomes aware of that damned song playing in the background, and he begins to laugh, possibly a bit hysterically, as joy and terror spin in his belly.

Sherlock smiles, as soft and warm as any expression John has ever seen on his face. Sherlock takes a step unmistakably towards his bedroom, extends his hand to John. “Dance with me,” he says. John recognizes the vulnerability of it, the risk, but it’s Sherlock, and he knows it’s going to be so, so good.

“Only if you change the music,” John says, and takes his hand.


End file.
